The idea made me laugh, until it hit me in the shower. I stood under the hot water, trying to remember it clearly. The last day Steele spent in Alaska he met with a man at the Fairbanks Hotel. The name was written only as Gary R. Was I remembering it right? Could it possibly be that Steele had met with Gary Rollins in a hotel in Alaska three days before he killed his wife?
And if so, why?
I had to go to the office to confirm it before I worked myself into a frenzy. Not only did Steele know Andersen before the murder, but he may have met Gary Rollins too. The same guy who, twelve years later, went by the name of Ray G. and tried to bribe people into solidifying Steele’s alibi. Was he working for Andersen the whole time? Were they all just working for Steele?
I couldn’t straighten it out. I needed to talk to Ed. There were too many pieces, and too many unknowns for it all to make sense. I stood in the shower for a long time. My head hurt thinking about it.
I finally got dressed in the same clothes from the day before. I realized I hadn’t eaten anything since the carnicera with Ed and debated calling room service. But the prospect of paying twenty dollars for a stale bagel didn’t thrill me.
But after checking out and finding myself on the sidewalk, I realized I’d never tried to find breakfast downtown before. I resigned myself to being hungry for a while longer. I figured I’d run up to my office, check the day planner, and then head to campus and at least sit through my classes while I waited to hear from Ed.
The day planner held no surprise. I’d remembered the entry perfectly: 3 P.M., Fairbanks Hotel, Gary R. That it could be some other Gary R. seemed too coincidental. It had to be the same guy. I tried to think of reasons they might have met as I walked out to my car. But the twelve-year gap was baffling.
Out in the garage, I spent a few seconds looking for my BMW before remembering I had the rental and that I’d parked in a different spot than usual. I took the stairs up two levels and had to try to remember exactly which car it was. I pressed the alarm button on the key chain and the lights of a white four door Chevy blinked halfway down a row of cars facing the concrete wall of the parking structure.
I could hear my own footsteps echo in the early morning garage as I crossed the pavement. I opened the door, slid into the driver’s seat and reached to drop my briefcase on the floor, but instead recoiled in horror at the sight of Ed Snyder’s severed head, set upright and staring at me from the passenger’s seat. The white cloth seat cushion was stained a dark black and most of his fluffy curls were matted with dried blood. I flailed backward through the open door and up against the neighboring car, setting off the wailing shriek of its alarm.
But I heard none of it. I sat alone on the cold pavement, wide-eyed and mouth agape, staring into dead, but frightened eyes. Ed Snyder’s face wore the expression of a man who knew his head was being cut from his body. A face aware that what it felt in its final moments was the flow of its own blood draining from its brain, down through a massive and irreparable hole. A face already dead when the words “watch out” were carved into its forehead.
Twenty minutes later I was sitting in a conference room full of cops. Ten minutes after that, Detective Wilson walked back into my life and started grilling me.
The two officers who found me in the parking garage took me to a conference room, and tried to calm me down. They stepped to the rear of the room when Wilson walked in. I recognized him, of course, but I didn’t say anything to him. I just stared at him. He stared right back.
He said, “You sure know how to fuck things up, don’t you, Olson.” Then he took a seat across from me. “The boys tell me you found a little surprise in your car this morning. What can you tell me about that?”
“What?” I looked him in the eye. Everything in the room seemed artificial, like a bad joke, including Wilson.
“Nice watch,” Wilson said with a sneer.
“Oh, thanks.” I spoke vaguely and looked at the watch, almost surprised to see it. By the time I took my eyes off of it, I’d already forgotten what Wilson had asked me. He could tell, so he tried again.
“How did you know Ed Snyder?” Wilson asked. This time his voice was softer. He was shifting gears, trying various tactics to see what would get me to talk. It was a logical place for him to start, so I couldn’t fault him for that, but the answer couldn’t begin to tell the story.
Wilson leaned forward on his elbows, resting on the table, waiting for my answer. I started telling him about Snyder and then backed up. “We might as well start at the beginning,” I said.
Wilson leaned back and shrugged. “I’m all ears.”
I rubbed my head and tried to focus. I was exhausted. Where was the beginning? When had it all started? Three days ago? Three months ago? Twelve years ago? How had I become involved? That was the question I was trying to answer for myself. The beginning of the summer felt like a lifetime ago, almost unimaginable now. Had I really changed so much in such a short time? Somewhere along the line I’d sold out everything I thought I believed in for a shot at something I never really wanted to be.
But Detective Wilson wasn’t interested in any of that. He wanted to know about the body. They’d found the rest of Ed Snyder in the trunk of my rental car, so they actually had the whole thing now. He kept asking me questions and I kept answering them. I went through the story, every detail, for the fourth time in two days. Wilson listened attentively, asked questions, and interrupted now and then, but he took no notes. The note taking was someone else’s job. When silence fell over the conference room, I could hear scribbling behind me as Wilson and I exchanged stares through the sterile fluorescent light.
Wilson went page by page through my file. Each document, each phone call, each line of notes, and for each one Wilson asked me when and why, as well as what I was thinking at the time. It was slow, methodical, and grueling. No one suggested I killed Snyder. But each question rested on a hint of suspicious caution. I knew Wilson wasn’t the kind of man who trusted people, at least not people who found severed heads in their cars. And when Wilson asked me questions like, “Why did you ask your girlfriend to get the credit report?” — answers like “I don’t know” didn’t sit too well with him.
After every significant event, Wilson ordered people around like MacArthur lording over Japan. There was a sense of urgency in the air. Everything was important, everything had to happen immediately. Wilson dispatched people to go through Ed Snyder’s office, to fingerprint the rental car and review security tapes, to talk to Murdock, to search my apartment for clues of any kind, and to check out the house in Topanga. People rushed in and out of the room.
At one point Wilson asked me when I first suspected something was wrong. I thought about it for a minute and then smiled. All I could think about was Morgan, and the way she whispered in my ear on her couch. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the pressure of the interview, or just being surrounded by all those cops, but I leaned back in my chair, snorted a little, and then started to laugh and laugh. I slapped my hand on the table and then held the edge to steady myself. I could see her and hear her in my head and, for whatever reason, it struck me as the funniest thing in the world.
29
Six hours of cops and questions later it was over and I staggered back up to my office. I still had not eaten anything and I thought I might pass out. I rummaged through the break room and found half a bagel. It was gone in seconds. As I plodded around the floor I could feel the buzz in the air. Everyone knew, everyone had heard. How could they not? There had been cops and flashing lights everywhere when they arrived at work. There had been hushed talk in the halls and the short, static filled bursts of police radios in the common areas. By the time I got back to my desk, the news was everywhere. Which I found funny because Wilson had asked me not to talk to anyone. He wanted to keep a lid on things until they had all of the evidence collected. Only then would they move in on Steele, and possibly Andersen.
As I sat there, numb from the day’s events, Carver strolled in
with a concerned look on his face.
“My God, are you okay?” he asked, and then continued, “What are you doing here? You need to go home and rest.”
“Can’t.” I laughed, and put my feet up on the desk. “My apartment’s still a crime scene.” I was getting punchy, delirious. Carver seemed unsure what else to say. I went on. “They said they’d call me when they were through. Should be any time. They’re gonna give me protection though. Post a guy outside. Them’s my tax dollars at work.”
Carver seemed to struggle with his words, for once his overwhelming confidence appeared to be overcome. He took off his glasses and turned them over and over in his hands while he talked. “I just can’t believe this. If there’s anything we can do, anything I can do, let me know.”
I could feel his next words coming, even before he started to speak. I suppose a guy like Carver can’t help himself, but it still struck me as sad.
“I just wish you’d come to me before any of this happened.”
As if Carver could have done anything. I felt like laughing at him, but stifled it. “Ah, well, everything happened so quick. It was all very confusing.”
“Hmmmm.” Carver raised his eyebrows and nodded his head, as though appreciating a well-made point. “Well,” he began quickly, slapping the doorjamb as he backed out of the room. “Get some rest and let us know if we can do anything.” He spoke as though I had a bad case of the flu, instead of a price on my head. I said nothing in response but merely watched him go, receding back into the hallway and a world he understood and could control.
I got up and closed the door. Then I unlocked the file cabinet that held the chest and photo albums. I’d purposefully avoided telling Wilson about them, figuring I’d ship them off to Becky and at least some small good would come from all of this. Now that the cops had the Topanga property in their sights, I guessed it would be another twelve years before any of Sharon’s things could be claimed. I stared down into the drawer, sizing things up. Then I ducked out into a supply room and returned with three cardboard file boxes and some packing tape. The pictures could go in one and I could cut the others to fit around the chest. I had to do something while I waited for the all clear from Wilson.
I stacked the photo albums on the edge of the desk and lifted the chest out of the drawer. Becky had said it was a family heirloom and it looked it. I crouched down and tugged at the heavy brass lock. When I pulled down on it, it was solid. But I noticed the screws around the hasp were loose and, when I pulled directly out, I could see them separating from the wood. I didn’t want to damage the box, but curiosity got the better of me. Becky hadn’t seen it in a dozen years, she wouldn’t know the difference. I pulled a little harder and the screws popped loose, leaving the brass lock and hasp in my hand as I fell back on my ass.
“Shit,” I muttered, staring dumbly at the lock dangling from my fingers. I guessed the chest might be older than I thought. But since it was open I reached out and cupped the brass handle on the lid, throwing it up and back. The chest flew open, the lid catching on brass chains just before folding all the way over, leaving me to stare foolishly inside. The box was filled with crisp and tightly packed hundred dollar bills.
Almost instinctively, I crawled over to the door, locked it, and leaned against it gawking at the money. Now it made a little more sense. Someone did go back into Steele’s house after the murder. Someone was trying to find something, and that same someone still was. I crawled back over to the chest and ran my fingers across the surface of the bills. How much was it? Enough to kill Ed Snyder over, that was for damned sure. Enough to kill me too.
It was simply unbelievable, unreal. I emptied the box slowly. The bills were bound in stacks of a hundred, crisp and new and a half-inch thick. I piled them in short stacks of ten. Five-inch stacks of hundred dollar bills: one hundred-thousand dollars each. I lined up the stacks across the top of my desk, one, two, three, four, all along the desk. They just kept coming, one after another.
There were so many that I forgot what I was handling until I stood back to see it all. When I finished, I had fifty little stacks. I surveyed the rows and columns of money I’d arranged with pride. I’d managed to fit them all neatly on the top of the desk. Fifty little stacks, a thousand bills per stack: five million dollars in cash.
***
It was late in the day and I was still sitting in my office waiting for Detective Wilson to call. I had driven myself mad with fear, pacing around the office, asking myself what I should do. I was terrified to even leave the room. I thought of Snyder’s last words to me as he leaned across the seat of his car: We’re gonna blow this thing wide open. Or maybe it would blow us wide open.
I’d gathered the cash into a pile on the desk and was unsure what to do with it. At first I placed it in one of the cardboard boxes I’d brought in for shipping, but that didn’t even hold the half of it, there was too much, so I put the rest back in the chest. My movements were frantic, pointless. What I really wanted was for the money to go away. So I put the lid on the box and closed the chest. Problem solved.
I collapsed in my chair and tried to think logically. Maybe I could just mail it to Becky the way it was. If they caught me I could claim I never opened it, claim ignorance. But she was rich. She didn’t need the money. It seemed like a waste to send it to her.
Maybe I could mail it to her empty, keep the money, and still claim ignorance. I thought of Snyder’s head on my front seat and imagined that I might end up the same way. Snyder had never even seen the money and they did it to him. Maybe I should just take it and run. With five million I could run far and for a long time. I seriously contemplated several scenarios, but moments later I laughed out loud. I wouldn’t know the first thing about running. They would find me in a week.
I remained in my chair, rocking and staring at the hope chest, knowing that the man who’d been following me and who’d killed Snyder was still out there somewhere. I was paralyzed by images of Snyder and my own grief at having dragged him into it. I thought of calling Liz, but was afraid to drag her in anymore than I already had. The only thing I knew for certain was that I would have to leave my office at some point.
Then the phone rang. It was Detective Wilson.
“I thought you said you didn’t touch anything in that house up in Topanga.” Those were the first words out of his mouth.
“I didn’t.”
“Well, the place was trashed when we got there. You’re sure you weren’t followed there? You sure you left everything piled up in the middle of the room?”
“Yes. I mean I can’t be—” I stopped myself. “Yes. I left everything piled up. No, I can’t be sure I wasn’t followed. All I know is that I didn’t see anyone. But hell, they probably had the copy of the file I made Ed. It wouldn’t take a genius to find it.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t. You seemed to make it up there pretty quick.” I couldn’t tell if Wilson meant it as an insult.
“Do you know if they’re done looking at my place yet?” I asked. “I’d really like to get some sleep.”
“Yeah, they’re done. I got a man outside. You’ll be alright there.”
“So have you arrested anyone yet?” I wanted to know when the streets were safe.
“We talked to Andersen. He denied everything. No surprise there. But we really don’t have any evidence on him, so we had to release him. You’ve gotta do things by the book with a guy like that. Any little mistake and he’ll walk.”
“What about Steele?”
“We don’t know where he is.”
“Gary Rollins?”
“Same thing.” Wilson let out a deep breath. “Look kid, relax. The entire LAPD has been briefed on this. They’re all looking for them. They won’t be able to hide for long. Go home. Get some sleep. You’ll be safe at your place. These guys aren’t going to come near you now. They know the heat’s too high.”
I digested what he was saying. Wilson made noises on the other end of the phone, like he was having trouble
talking. Finally, he asked, “Well, you got any idea what someone would be looking for up there? It seems to me they’re not too interested in you. It seems to me they’re looking for something particular.” Wilson was the kind of guy who didn’t like to admit he needed help.
I stared at the hope chest. Yeah, they were looking for something particular all right. I figured at this point it wasn’t safe to tell anyone anything at all. “I have no idea.”
When the call was over I thought about the house in Topanga, thought about the drive up there. I was certain I wasn’t followed. The roads were too narrow and winding, someone following me would have had to stay too close. It had to have been Ed’s copy of the file that led them to the house. Then I thought of Ed’s other comment, cliché as it was: Never keep your eggs in one basket.
I stared at the chest again and shook my head. Good advice, Ed, I thought. It seemed at every turn I was leading the enemy right into camp.
I’d reached a point where I could no longer think about anything, no longer contemplate alternate courses of action. The events of the prior days weighed on me, suffocated me. I thought of a plainclothes policeman sitting in an unmarked car outside my apartment. Was that supposed to help me sleep? It was the fact that I needed protection that haunted me. The mere presence of protection could not take away the danger, or the fear of danger. And what could they really protect me from anyway?
But there, alone in my quiet office, sagging back into my eight-hundred dollar Aeron chair, the images from the prior days began to fade away and there was a heaviness in my veins. If I could just relax a little further, it would all go away, if only for a while. I let out a few deep breaths and was gone.
30
Because I was sleeping so hard, I didn’t hear it at first. In fact, I didn’t hear the jingling of burglar tools or the clicking of moving metal parts until the lock popped open and the door swung back. I opened my eyes and sat forward in a daze, as surprised to see a cleaning guy in his long blue coveralls as the cleaning guy was to see me.
Follow the Money Page 21
